


House Rules

by asuralucier



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Backstory, Character and Relationship study, Loyalty, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Canon, Trust, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21619333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: A young, ambitious assistant concierge is told to impress an equally ambitious Manager visiting a nearly defunct Continental in Sousse. Twenty years and several continents later, things don’t really change.
Relationships: Charon/Winston (John Wick)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26
Collections: 300bpm Flash Exchange November 2019





	House Rules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NeverwinterThistle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/gifts).



> The more I put Taylor Swift’s [Lover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uLL2xTK35Qc) on repeat, the longer and more self-indulgent this got. I’m sorry.

The Continental Sousse was more or less forgotten, ever since a sister hotel was erected in Algiers, a handful of years ago. Any day now, Charon got the feeling that the High Table would send an emissary to declare the Continental Sousse defunct and unfit for purpose. 

It hadn’t mattered, of course, that Sousse had history, had weight. Hotels were built and ran for all sorts of reasons and sentimentality hardly entered into the often mysterious rationale of Upper Management. It was even more of a frivolous thing, to think that such decisions would be explained to subordinates who worked at the front lines of the hotel. 

“It’s not sentimentality,” Styx said, joining him at the front desk. She hadn’t slept, by Charon’s careful estimation, for about forty-eight hours, but everything about the woman was still upright and severe. Charon wondered privately whether her shoes (equally severe) meant that she was in pain. Styx was not a woman who was a stranger to pain. “It’s a matter of loyalty; sentimentality with character, if you must. Something you ought to understand sooner rather later. If you wish to serve.” 

Charon did not really wish to serve. Wishfulness spoke naturally to waste, and in his mind, he either served, or he didn’t. One of those things was not a possibility given his station, so it was easy to put it out of mind. 

“I’m only saying.” Charon reached to take the stack of receipts from her without being asked. Some of the slips were stained, perhaps with wine, or maybe blood. “Would working in Algiers really be such a personal offense to you?” 

It was nearing three in the afternoon, and the few Continentals that Charon had had the pleasure of visiting during his training would be filling up in busy anticipation for check in. Sometimes, overflow from the bar would make the lobby more lively. Charon recalled such scenes with envy, but not an inappropriate amount. He knew in his heart that he was always going to bound to Sousse. 

“If it so offends you, you could go to Algiers.” Styx told him. “I’m sure you’ve got offers coming out of your ears. I’m not the one who is keeping you here.” 

“I couldn’t,” he said, exhaling. 

“Neither can I,” Styx smiled, and there was something in her eyes that was tired and finally honest. “Now, it looks like we have a guest. Please do me a favor and actually appear like you are an employee of the Continental rather than its prisoner.” 

There was indeed a guest wandering about in the high-ceilinged lobby, a middle-aged man, perhaps in his upper-forties, who was carrying a dark suitcase with him. Normally, at this juncture, a guest would be relieved of his belongings and later, the luggage would be sent up to his room. Given the recent reductions in staff, this was no longer a luxury that could be offered. 

Briefly, Charon considered the idea that the man was lost. 

“He’s a Manager,” Styx murmured near his ear. “He does things as precisely as he means to. Try not to embarrass the Sousse.” 

Sometimes, Styx would tell him stories of Sousse in its glory days. When Consortiums would be held in the large conference room now under lock and key because Housekeeping couldn’t be bothered, no matter how sternly Styx spoke to them, or the many times when adjacent delegations sent by either a Family or personally by the Table were often seen on premises. 

Charon tried to remember the last time he’d seen a Manager, and with that, the last time a man in Upper Management had the gall to travel alone. He arrived at the same answer for both. 

“I’d like a room,” said the man, in crisp, clear English. He slid one heavy gold coin across the countertop, the newness of its condition spoke to how close he was to the entire system without saying a single word. 

Probably, exactly as the man intended. 

Hastily, Charon shoved the stack of receipts into a drawer and locked it. “Yes, sir. Adjacent suites?” 

“No need.” The man shook his head. “I am alone.” 

“Is that safe?” Charon couldn’t help himself. He chose a suite on the fifth floor, because he’d seen Housekeeping on that floor earlier, always a heartening sign. 

“I’m on company grounds. I’d certainly hope so.” The man deftly sidestepped his question, and Charon was left wondering if he’d single-handedly made Sousse defunct. It didn’t escape him that this Manager spoke completely without pretense, which suggested that he didn’t need any, was assured in himself. 

“Here you are, fifth floor. I’m afraid I --” Charon decided to chance it. “Did you come from London?” 

“If that’s your way asking me covertly if I’m Thewlis, I’m not. I should be offended.” But the man didn’t sound particularly offended; he almost sounded amused. “My name is Winston and I manage New York. Why don’t you show me to my suite, Charon, and we can consider the matter closed.” 

Winston’s candidness surprised Charon, although on second thought, maybe it shouldn’t have. “You know who I am?” 

“A good Manager knows everyone worth knowing,” Winston said, and Charon took those words while a queer feeling rose in his throat. 

The suite on the fifth floor was miraculously clean and turned over to standard. Still, Charon stood quietly beside the door as Winston examined his lodgings. At last, the man seemed to find them satisfactory, and Charon waited to be dismissed. 

Instead, Winston asked, “Would you join me for a drink?” 

“I’ve probably left my post too long, sir,” Charon said. In the silence that hung between them, Charon thought he could see Winston thinking, that there was nothing more tragic than a(n assistant) concierge losing his way with no guests to serve. 

“How about the bar then?” Winston suggested reasonably, “That way if you’re needed, they’ll know where to find you.” 

The bartender looked unhappy to see them and Charon made a note later to give him a talking to about acceptable service standards. Word had come from above that threatening redundancy was no longer allowed, but there were other ways to bring a man to heel. 

Incompetence in all its guises, even upon those much less fortunate than he as to bear its weight, seemed to grate on Charon more and more these days. It seemed at first, a minor inconvenience, but as he was left with less recourse, it was easier to let irritation seep in where it ought not to.

“Actually, about the receipts,” the bartender started, and before the rest of his audacious question had time to leave the man’s mouth, Charon fixed him with a long dark look, until the bartender more or less gave up and wilted. After a moment, the bartender mumbled something along the lines of: “What would you like to drink?” 

“Well, that was a neat trick,” Winston said, once they’d sat down. He’d allowed Charon to choose where they sat and Charon had chosen a table which begot some semblance of privacy for Winston’s sake, but at the same time, gave him a clear view of the bar. 

“It’s not a trick, sir.” 

Where they were sat was a couple of banquettes with a solid oak table in between. The table needed a wipe. When Charon moved to take a seat opposite, Winston had insisted that he sit beside him. So Charon had, mindful of the precarious amount of space left between them.

“Of course it isn’t.” Winston smiled faintly around the rim of his glass. The glass, at least, was clean. “Is that really all you’re having?” 

Charon looked down at his own glass of water, with a slice of lime, because of course the bar had run out of lemons. “I’m not meant to be drinking.” It was no great loss; the promise of inebriation never held much sway with him. 

“Ah, the dreaded House Rules.” Winston nodded. “I’ve never really liked it, you know, when Upper Management feel like they have to flex their influence to prove a point that shouldn’t even need proving in the first instance.” 

“I don’t mind,” Charon said, feeling suddenly a strange, ardent need to defend his hotel. He couldn’t exactly explain it. “There is nothing wrong with rules to keep a house in order.” 

Winston didn’t say anything to that, as if he was content to let the deafening silence of the bar speak for itself. 

Finally, Charon asked, “Do you allow your employees drink during the Continental’s hours of operation?” Maybe they did things differently in New York. Insofar as Charon was aware, a good hotel never closed for business. 

“Come now, you know that question is unfair,” Winston chided, but like before, he sounded more amused than annoyed. 

“Maybe I meant for it to be,” said Charon. Something else he knew about Upper Management: they had all the advantage. Some worked for it; some just got lucky. Some showed it wielding their gifts like a gauche, inherited trinket. Winston was none of those things, he simply wore his privilege like a man who could afford honesty when no one else could. 

“Do you truly believe that I would leave my house if it was not in order? Although, in your stead, I would have relieved that young man of his position.” 

“Another one of our House Rules.” Charon told him. One good turn inspired another -- he had no idea why he told the truth. 

Winston nodded past his shoulder, and Charon turned to see Styx standing at the bar. 

“It looks like you’re wanted,” Winston said. When Charon rose after draining his glass of water, he was freshly aware of eyes at the back of his head like a magnet, spreading a slow warmth. 

“Of course he’d be offended,” said Styx. “Thewlis is nearly seventy. Older than me. You’d been better off accusing him of being Braddock. At least he’s in the right age bracket.” 

“Winston didn’t sound like he was from Manchester,” Charon returned. The moment he responded, he knew his answer was unnecessary and he should have kept quiet. “Or you could have told me who he was.” 

“A concierge is not meant to have an easy job.” Styx sounded as if she was saying three different things at once. 

“Do you enjoy your work?” 

Ironically, there were always things to be done around the hotel, but when Charon was tasked with minding the front desk, there was little to occupy his attention. 

Every so often, a letter detailing an offer of employment would come from Algiers. Usually, he read it, and then discarded it. The gesture was symbolic more than anything, for Charon had an infallible memory. 

It was not his place to ask Winston what he was doing in Sousse, nor was it his place to converse too intimately with guests. However, it was rude to ignore a Manager, especially one who managed New York. That, and it was simply easier to acknowledge Winston than to ignore him. Even when the man was not in Charon’s line of sight, it was impossible not to remember that he was present in the hotel. Not that Charon forgot any of the establishment’s patrons, but the reality of it was that the Sousse hadn’t played host to a memorable guest in a long time. For a moment, Charon entertained the idea of working in New York. He’d never been. 

“Of course, sir,” Charon said. 

Winston leaned his arms on the counter and Charon spied fresh scars on his fingers. “There is no need to be so formal with me.” 

“I enjoy my work in theory,” Charon amended, and Winston appeared to consider this clarification with great interest. 

“Let me ask you something else,” Winston said finally, after a brief pause. “Who do you work for?” 

The question seemed easy, but Charon was mindful of Styx’s earlier words. He took a moment to think, and Winston didn’t seem to mind. “I work for the Continental Sousse. Further afield, I am in the service of the Company, same as you.” 

Winston nodded, “That is the right answer, but not the true answer. You work for Styx, your mother. If she weren’t here, you’d let Algiers poach you in a pinch.” 

Charon said nothing. 

“She has her reasons for staying. Lord knows I don’t agree with them, but you don’t have to share her sentimentality. Come work for me in New York.” 

Charon opened his mouth to say that it wasn’t sentimentality, but then thought better of it. 

Charon took three days to think about it. When he told his mother of his decision in the end, she looked at him with her dark, bright eyes and touched his cheek, the way she’d long ceased to do ever since he was a boy. 

“The river flowed long before a man set foot on it in a boat.” 

New York turned out to be exactly as Charon expected: busy. It was busy enough that he felt almost out of his depth, as if he were newly minted and still bumbling through his first days behind the Front Desk. 

But he grew out of that quickly enough and the chaos became yet another rhythm in his veins. He carried it as a part of him, most days naturally, not sparing it a second thought, and instead committing it to habit. 

Charon went up to the penthouse suite when he was called. It was nearly two in the afternoon, which meant the hotel was not particularly busy. 

He found Winston in the middle of packing a suitcase, the same one he’d carried when Charon had first laid eyes on him in Sousse, by the looks of it, for somewhere cold. 

“Where are you going, sir?” In true spirit of the query, he felt uncertain. He’d been working in New York now for nearly three years, and not once to his knowledge had the Manager left the hotel for days at a time, certainly never long enough to require a suitcase. 

“I am going to Munich. With any luck, I’ll be back by the end of next week.” 

Part of Charon wanted to tell Winston to stop traveling alone. But he knew that would be speaking above his station, speaking out of turn, and man probably wouldn’t listen. Charon wasn't one to waste words on deaf ears.

Winston was dressed casually, still in a crisp white shirt, but his sleeves were not secured by cufflinks. Charon couldn’t spot a jacket anywhere, not even one hung haphazardly across the arm of one of the sofas nearby. 

“You don’t strike me as someone who needs luck,” Charon said. 

“It’s nice to have,” said Winston, not contesting Charon’s point.

“Then, good luck.” 

Winston stepped towards him and reached out a hand. He squeezed Charon very gently under his elbow, and that touch connected with an old one, one that Charon kept at the back of his skull. 

“Mind our house while I’m gone.” Winston smiled and turned away from him. “Not that I need to tell you.” 

Winston didn’t, but it was nice to hear. 

Ten days later, Charon found himself in Munich. He was not a man who given to worry and the frame of mind sat uneasy no matter how he tried to quell it. He thought to go alone, and then didn’t, as a precaution. No one in their line of work was in the business of doing things for free, but John Wick was between contracts and said he would if Charon’s mission involved safeguarding the Manager. Winston had a way with people. 

John said, standing over him, “I’ll find them and rip their damn heads off.” John, not unlike the quiet turmoil of Charon’s mind, was the perfect picture of agitation. His posture vibrated and he flexed his hands, as if he itched. 

“See that you do worse than that, Mr. Wick,” said Charon. “Spend my share.” 

John gave a terse nod. “You got it.” 

After John disappeared down the hall into the elevator, Charon picked himself up and turned the key card he had in his hands over several times before exhaling a long breath. 

Inside the room, there was a not unfamiliar, antiseptic smell. But Winston was awake and attempting to read some papers that Charon had left there for him. It wasn’t so much that Charon approved of Winston working under such conditions, but that he knew, understood, and anticipated the needs of his Manager. 

“Where’s the calvary?” Winston asked, looking up. This was his fourth day on bedrest, and Charon was relieved to see that some color was finally returning to his face. 

“Mr. Wick is taking care of loose ends as we speak, sir,” Charon said. “I thought it would be prudent that I remained here, in case you needed me.” 

“I see. How did you know where I was? Precisely where I was.” 

“It’s my job to know.” Charon approached the bed. “I take pride in my work.” 

Winston didn’t say anything. He looked between Charon and the papers he held in his hands, and then put them aside. The whole of his body seemed to sink into the pillows, as if along with those papers, he’d set something else aside, too. 

“I’m tired,” Winston said, with his eyes closed. 

Charon considered several answers before arriving at one. “Then rest. You can rest. But from now on, you are not to travel alone, Mr. Manager.” 

“Am I not?” Winston opened his eyes again. 

“I go where you go,” Charon said. “I’m allowed in my capacity as the concierge of the New York Continental to implement House Rules for the benefit of the hotel.” 

“Subject to the Manager’s approval.” 

Charon didn’t need to be reminded of that, either. “Can I go where you go, sir?” 

Winston said, “Yes.” 

After that, Winston reached out a hand and Charon took it. He felt the remnants of old scars along Winston’s fingers and held on tight. 

“I’m going to Algiers,” said Winston, and the news was not entirely surprising. Theirs was a world behind a world, and whispers traveled quickly, like wildfire. A wedding was nearly as exciting as someone being declared _excommunicado_. The former never happened without mishaps that could shape whispers for years and years to come, and of course, it went without saying that the latter could make a man very rich. 

Charon studied him out of the corner of his eye. Winston had a tell, but one directly tied to his immediate surroundings and company; when he was in the penthouse suite, he tended to forego cufflinks. The pair he’d been wearing earlier sat on the low table before him, glinting against the dark wood. “Are you attending Vella’s wedding?” 

“I am. That means you are too, I haven’t forgotten.” 

Vella was no-nonsense and ran the Munich Kontinental with an iron fist. She’d been young, but a quick study. Ever since Winston’s incident in her city a handful of years ago, nothing like it had happened since. She’d assumed most of the responsibility, but some of the fault probably lay with Winston.

It was not something they talked about. 

“She asked me if I’d give her away,” Winston said. “As a gesture.” 

“She’ll have to vacate Munich, won’t she?” Charon asked. He abandoned his post by Winston’s window and went to sit next to him on the sofa. “Company rules.” 

“Indeed.” Winston nodded, looking thoughtful. He still had half a drink in front of him, but he hadn’t touched it in some time. “She spoke to me about her replacement.” 

“Who does she have in mind?” 

Now Winston turned his gaze and looked at him. “You. If you so wish. Vella was impressed by you. Said your instincts were wasted on your station. Said --” a mild chuckle, gently rolling through, “-- that I was a selfish bastard to keep you with me in New York. I started thinking that, well. She has a point.” 

Charon was suddenly aware of either the couch growing smaller or Winston shifting towards him. “Do you think so?” Vella’s influence must be stronger than Charon had first thought, because it took a lot for Winston to consider a less than flattering portrait of himself. 

“It only matters what you think,” Winston said, close enough to him now that Charon thought he could smell the odd, almost sweet cloying smell of well-aged whiskey, but it wasn’t unpleasant. “If you want Munich, then it’s yours. I was younger than you are now, when I took New York.” 

On the opposite wall hung a painting of the Manhattan skyline at nighttime. It’d been there for as long as Charon had been in the employ of the New York Continental. He had little doubt that Winston had taken New York for his own gain, as if a city with millions in it could so easily be taken because a man wanted it. 

As for the piece itself, Charon doubted that it was on display for its artistic merit. He didn't think the skyline was particularly well depicted, but his was a layman's eye.

Winston followed his gaze. “First thing I ever bought, when I moved up here. A reminder of what’s at stake.” 

“I’d be in violation of our House Rules,” said Charon, finally. “It is a generous offer, and you should tell Vella I am flattered.” He added, “Besides, German is not my strong suit. I’m not exactly taken with it.” 

Winston turned Charon’s face towards him once more with two fingers and leaned forward. The kiss was prim on his mouth, but it also had weight and the unspoken history of years, and didn’t need to be anything else. 

But then there was Winston’s hand on the inside of his thigh and that was less prim. There was now a meaningful glint in the man’s eye. “So long as you’re taking House Rules seriously, I’m going to retire to my bedroom now.” 

“I’ve done something daft,” Winston remarked idly, as if he were speaking about the weather. 

Together, they stood beside the unmarked car as they watched as John Wick quickened his pace with his dog sticking close to his side. Soon, the pair rounded a corner and were gone. 

“My mother used to call that sentimentality, or. No, sentimentality with character,” Charon responded. Speaking of the weather, the clouds hung low and heavy. Soon, it would storm. 

“Did she,” Winston said. 

When Charon opened the door of the car, Winston got in. Without thinking, Charon moved to put a hand on his shoulder. Winston raised it and pressed a small kiss to his palm. 

“You once asked me who I worked for.” 

“I did.” 

“Ask me again.” 

“Who do you work for?” 

Charon met his gaze and kept steady. “I work for a man who took New York because he wanted it. I work for a man who understands loyalty as a rare quality and rewards it, even to his own detriment. Some might even say I work for a selfish bastard, but I respectfully disagree.” 

Winston let go of his hand and Charon went to start the car. Winston said, “If you’d said that to any other Manager, you’d probably be let go for insubordination.” 

Charon began to pull the car away from the curb, in order to join the slow flow of afternoon traffic that would take them back to the hotel. “Then I think I'm in the right place.”


End file.
